The sound of my family gathering for Iftar in our beautiful home in Gaza still lives in my head. I can hear it clearly if I close my eyes: the scrape of chairs pulled too quickly across the floor as my mother’s voice calls out from the kitchen, loud laughter before the silence of the evening prayer. There was always too much noise and never enough space at the table. Plates overlapped. Someone was always standing because there weren’t enough chairs. It felt crowded in the way only love can.

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Ramadan in Gaza had a rhythm. The adhan (“Call to Prayer”) would float through the streets just before sunset, weaving its way through open windows. The smell of lentil soup and fried snacks filled our home hours before it was time to eat. My mother insisted on preparing more food than we could possibly finish. She would say abundance itself was a form of protection. Neighbors exchanged plates of sweets without ceremony, and children ran through the streets after the feast when their energy was renewed. The nights felt alive in a steady and comforting way. 

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This year, Ramadan arrived quietly in my apartment in New York. There are no lanterns hung outside and no one has knocked on the door with a plate of sweets. The streets outside my window move as they always do. People are unaware that something sacred has begun. In exile, Ramadan is something I carry privately. Our family celebrates it quietly. No one rearranges their day around it.

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Fasting this year comes with the weight of my loved ones being far away. I wake before dawn to the glow of my phone alarm. For a few seconds, in that fragile space between sleeping and waking, I forget where I am. I expect to hear my mother in the kitchen, moving quietly so she doesn’t wake everyone at once. I expect the sound of plates, the low murmur of voices that creates the familiar comfort of knowing I am not alone. 

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I make suhoor—the pre-dawn meal before fasting begins—in a dim kitchen while my two young children are asleep. Sometimes it is just yogurt and bread. Sometimes I do not feel hungry at all, but I eat because that is what we have always done. I sit at the table and scroll through messages from family members scattered across different countries and time zones. Some of my family are still in Gaza. Some managed to leave for Egypt and then Turkey. We are waiting for news that never comes. When I finish eating, I linger at the table, postponing the moment I have to stand up and return to the quiet.

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During the day, I move through my responsibilities and take care of my kids but there is always a gnawing reminder of what has been lost. I think about our house that was destroyed in Gaza. Every corner of it carried a part of my childhood. Growing up, every Ramadan lantern we hung left a tiny hole in the wall. I never imagined I would miss those imperfections.

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After two years of war, that house is gone. When my family describes it, they say simply, “It’s not there anymore.” The place that sheltered our ordinary days—our arguments, celebrations, and our routines—has been reduced to rubble.

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Now, those of my family who remain in Gaza, my father, sister, and my brother, live in a tent that shakes in the wind. It does not keep out the heat or the cold. They speak about shortages the way people speak about the weather; food is limited, medicine is hard to find, and water is not always clean. Ramadan reaches them there, too. They fast because sometimes there is simply not enough.

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When I break my fast in New York with a date and a glass of water, I think about them. I picture my father sitting on the ground inside that tent. I imagine him trying to recreate something that feels normal for the sake of the children. I wonder what “normal” even means anymore. The first sip of water catches in my throat. Relief and guilt arrive together.

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As a mother of two, I feel split in ways I do not always know how to explain. My children are growing up between worlds. They know Gaza through my stories— photographs, family photos, and my insistence that certain traditions matter. I decorate our small apartment with simple lights. I cook the dishes my mother taught me to make. I tell them about how, after Iftar, we would leave our house and move from one home to another, visiting relatives and neighbors without invitation because none was needed.

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Those nights after Iftar were my favorite part of Ramadan. We would walk through familiar streets glowing with soft yellow lights. We could hear laughter before we reached the door. Inside, tea was already brewing. Plates of kanafeh and baklava were placed in front of the guests before they even sat down. Someone would always say, “You haven’t eaten anything,” even when we had just come from another feast. The elders would settle into serious conversations about politics and history. The younger ones would whisper and giggle in corners. Time felt generous then. 

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Nowadays, after Iftar, the evening ends quickly. I clear the plates and help my children prepare for bed. Sometimes we watch television. The apartment grows quiet early. There are no unexpected guests or spontaneous visits. I miss the feeling of being surrounded—of knowing that if I stepped outside, someone would call my name.

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When the crescent moon was announced this year, I stood by the window and looked up at the New York sky. It did not look different from any other night. Although people and cars passed, with sirens wailing in the distance, I knew that somewhere, under that same moon, my family was looking up too. Maybe from inside the tent, or from a patch of open ground. The thought both comforts and unsettles me. We share the same sky, but not the same safety.

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Ramadan has changed for me. It is heavier now. There is less celebration and more reflection. I find myself praying longer with simple requests. “Please keep them safe. Please let them have enough to eat. Please let my children see their grandparents again without fear.” I pray for patience, but also for an end to waiting.

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Exile has taught me that home is not as permanent as I once believed. I have learned it can vanish. But something else will always remain— the habits of faith and the memories that refuse to fade with the stubborn love that stretches across continents. I still wake before dawn to fast.

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I do not know where we will be next Ramadan. I do not know whether my family will still be in that tent, or somewhere safer, or scattered even farther apart across the world. What I do know is this: even in exile, amid extraordinary loss, Ramadan finds us with a quiet reminder of who we are and what we carry.

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They took our house and scattered our family. They turned our lives upside down.

But they did not take the way we gather in memory. They could never take the prayers that rise from wherever we are standing. And, most importantly, they did not take the moon that reminds us, each year, that we are still looking up at the same light.

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